Heat of the Moment (2 page)

“So,” I say, “um, well, thank you for doing that.” The new plan is to get rid of Beckett, then call a cab and have them
bring me to the airport. I pull my phone out and google “cheap cabs last minute.” I know even a cheap cab is going to be ridiculously expensive. But that's what I have a credit card for. I got it a few months ago after getting an offer in the mail. My mom totally flipped and said that I was playing with my financial future. But if I don't use the credit card for the cab, then I'm playing with my sexual future. And that seems far more dangerous.

“You're welcome.” Beckett glances at his watch. “So what time does this late bus come, anyway?”

I don't know why, but I'm nervous about telling him there's no bus. Oh, well. It's like pulling off a Band-Aid. Just have to get it over with. “There is no bus,” I say cheerfully.

“What do you mean?” He looks puzzled.

“I mean there is no late bus.”

He's still perplexed. “What do you mean there is no late bus?”

“I mean that we missed the first bus. And there is no late bus.” For someone in AP classes, he's having a really hard time with comprehension.

“Then why did you say there was?” he asks slowly. He's looking at me like I might be totally crazy.

Humph. He wouldn't be looking at me that way if he knew the truth. That I've been planning this weekend for months, ever since my friend Juliana and I had a talk about it and I realized I was ready. But obviously I couldn't just,
you know, have sex with Derrick right away. I needed it to be special. And what's more special than a senior trip to Florida?

“Hello?” Beckett asks.

“Oh. Um, well, I just . . . Look, the truth is I really want to go. But obviously my mom wasn't going to let me unless she thought I was going to get there safely.”

He's gaping at me. “So you made up a fake late bus?”

I nod. Wow. There really are not that many cab companies around that promise to come at a moment's notice. Most of them say “please allow sixty minutes for pickup.” Sixty minutes? What is this, pizza delivery? Sixty minutes is not going to get me to the airport on time.

“And what about me?” Beckett turns my suitcase on its side and sits down on it. The material sags under his weight.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you even stop to think that it wasn't very nice to get my hopes up over some fake late bus? I was just about to leave when you pulled up.”

Oh. Yeah, I never thought of that. “Are you upset?”

He grins. “Not really.” He fiddles with the thin silver chain he's wearing around his neck. “I think it's kind of awesome. What's your name anyway?”

I stare at him incredulously. “You're kidding, right?”

“Pink?” he tries.

“Pink?”

“Yeah.” He grins in that maddening way of his and then fingers the tag on my bag again. “'Cause you write in pink. Not that you look anything like her. Pink, I mean.”

I'm not sure if he means it in a bad way. That I don't look like Pink. Does he think Pink's attractive and I'm not? Or is he just stating it as a fact, like “you don't have blond hair” or something?

“I cannot believe you don't know my name,” I say. “We're in two of the same classes.” I'm still scrolling on my phone, and I've found the number for “Kwiki Cab.” Hmm. They promise to pick you up in ten minutes or less. I'm a little worried about their lack of proper spelling, but beggars can't be choosers. And I'm sure it's fine. Companies are always trying to find ways to get you to remember them. Like this time I saw a dump truck that said
LET US FILL YOUR HOLE
. Totally inappropriate. And yet I still remember them.

I hit call, but Beckett reaches out and grabs my phone.

“Hey!” I grab for it, but he holds it out of my reach and ends the call. “What the hell are you
doing?
”

“What are you going to do, call a cab?”

“Yes!”

“And then what?”

“What do you mean and then what?” My heart is starting to pound now, and I'm getting really anxious, like my whole body is a rubber band that's being pulled tight and ready to spring. Every second that goes by, that bus is getting
farther away. Every second that goes by, the plane is getting closer to taking off and leaving me here. All alone. By myself. Virginity intact.

“And what is a cab going to do? Come and take you to the airport? You heard what the school said. That you have to be on the bus, otherwise it's a liability.”

“That's obviously a lie,” I say. “Of course they're going to let me on the plane.” I take my phone from his hand, and this time, he just lets me grab it. This is deeply unsatisfying. I wanted him to hold it out of my reach again, so I could wrestle him to the ground, and then when I finally got my phone back it would feel like some kind of real victory.

I dial Kwiki Cab.

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Four times.

“Thank you for calling Kwiki Cab. . . . We are not accepting new rides at this time, as all our cabs are helping existing customers. . . .”

What? So early in the morning? God, it's probably all drunk people on their walk of shame. How annoying. I try again, but it's the same thing.

I hang up and dial Derrick. It doesn't even ring before I get the greeting telling me to leave a message. I take in
a bunch of short, deep breaths through my nose. But the tightness around my chest is making it hard to exhale, so I hold the air in my lungs until they start to burn. I don't want to stay here. I
can't
stay here. My eyes well up with tears.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Beckett says, running his hand through his hair and looking uncomfortable. “Please don't cry. Jesus, if there's one thing I can't stand, it's when chicks cry.”

“I'm sorry, I just . . . I really wanted to go on this trip.” I sniff, and he reaches into his pocket and hands me a Kleenex.

I look at it suspiciously.

He rolls his eyes. “It's clean.”

“Thanks.” I'm suddenly embarrassed. I blow my nose and then throw the tissue into a trash can. “I'm just . . . I need to be alone for a minute.” I pick up my suitcase and start rolling it away from him, down toward the football field where the bleachers are. I just need to think of a plan. But what plan? All my friends are on the bus, going to the airport. And there's no way I can call my mom.

It takes me a second to realize Beckett's following me.

“Okay, fine,” he says, sounding exasperated, like I've been asking him questions this whole time. “I'll take you.”

“You'll take me?”

“To the airport.”

I stop. “How?”

“How what? I have a vehicle.”

“You have a
car
? And you've been sitting here this whole
time waiting?” What is wrong with him? Doesn't he know the plane is going to take off any minute, leaving him here, alone and cold in the stupid drizzly Connecticut weather instead of on the warm and sunny beaches of Florida?

He shrugs. “I was trying to decide if this trip was worth the effort of driving all the way to the airport.”

“But now you're going to drive us?” My heart is leaping and jumping! I'm excited. I'm freaking out. It's too good to be true!

“Yes. I'm going to drive us. Well, you. I don't think I'm going to go after all.” He waves his hand in the air like he can't believe he even was thinking about going on such a lame trip in the first place.

“But you just said that we weren't going to be able to get on the plane. You know, because of liability.” I hiccup.

“No one will know you weren't on the bus,” he says confidently. “They won't be able to prove it. Just get one of your friends to vouch for you, and make them think they didn't check you off.” He shrugs with the nonchalance of a guy who's used to getting his way.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“Trust me.” He says it the exact same way someone who should never be trusted would say it.

I hesitate. My heart is telling me to go with him. My mind is saying he's a strange boy, that I know nothing about him, that he could be an ax murderer, that it's borderline
inappropriate to get into a car with a guy who isn't my boyfriend. But honestly, what other choice do I have? If I want to go on this trip, I have to get to the airport. It's, like, a law of physics.

And that's when my phone buzzes.

I pull it out, expecting it to be Derrick. But it's not.

One new email.

I pull it up.

To: Lyla McAfee ([email protected])

From: Lyla McAfee ([email protected])

At first I'm confused. Why would I be sending an email to myself? It must be one of those phishing scams, the kind that are from some fake email address and make you enter in all your personal information so they can steal all your money. Not that I have any money.

I go to delete it.

And then I remember. The beach. The bonfire. The sand in my toes and the way my face felt tight from my sunburn. Aven and Quinn, laughing, our hair whipping into our faces from the wind. Setting the email to be delivered multiple times so we wouldn't be able to just ignore it.

Before graduation, I will . . .
learn to trust
.

I know it doesn't mean anything. Just because this email is showing up again right after Beckett told me to trust him doesn't mean that I should. The email is stupid. I should have made a promise to lose my virginity.

Of course, if I'm going to have any chance of doing that this weekend, I need to get to Florida. And in order to get to Florida, I'm going to have to get to the airport. And in order to get to the airport . . .

“Okay,” I say, sighing. “Let's go.”

IT'S A MOTORCYCLE
.

Beckett drives a motorcycle.

“You drive a motorcycle,” I say. My voice doesn't even sound shocked. Probably because it's not all that shocking. What would be shocking is if Beckett drove something normal and reliable, like a Nissan Sentra or a Honda Accord.

“Yes, I drive a motorcycle. Well, sometimes. It's not mine.” He opens the back compartment and starts rummaging around inside it. He doesn't elaborate on whose motorcycle it is or how he came to be driving it. “I know there's an extra helmet back here somewhere,” he mumbles.

I start to feel a little light-headed. I'm not the kind of girl who likes to do things like ride fast in cars or go on Ferris wheels. I get motion sickness.

He pulls out a small black helmet and looks at it. “No cracks,” he says happily before handing it to me.

A vision of me on the highway with my brains splattered all over flies through my head. “What are we going to do with my bag?” I ask, motioning to my carry-on.

“We'll put it under the seat.”

He picks it up and puts it in, shuts the compartment, and then slings his leg over the motorcycle seat. I try not to stare at the way his legs look straddling that thing. I never thought I was into the whole boy-on-a-motorcycle look (Derrick drives a Nissan Sentra, or his mom's Toyota RAV4 whenever she lets him), but I have to admit Beckett looks good on his bike.

“Be careful with my bag,” I say irritably. “It has all my stuff in it.”

“Everyone is so obsessed with material things these days. Stripped down is what we should be striving for, don't you think?”

Obviously not. I packed enough for three weeks when we're only going away for four days. But I don't want to seem like I'm a baby or anything, so I just say, “I need my clothes.” My voice sounds slightly . . . strangled.

He turns the ignition and the bike roars to life. “So what do you say?” he asks, grinning at me. “Are you in or are you out?”

“Can't we just try to find a cab?” I ask desperately. There have to be other companies. Or maybe a car service! My cousin lives in New York City, and she's always calling car
services. They must have them here, too. You know, for, like, businessmen. If I could pick a superpower, that's what I'd pick. The ability to make cabs appear out of nowhere.

Beckett shakes his head. “You already tried that. It will take forever.”

“We could try again,” I say lamely. “Even if it takes forever, that doesn't mean we're going to miss the flight.” The bus was going to get there extra early anyway, because we had so many people. Kind of like how when you go to a restaurant and you have a big party, you have to call ahead so they can make sure they can accommodate you.

“No, Pink.” He revs the engine and then raises his eyebrows. “Are you in or are you out?”

I sigh.

“I'm in.”

By the time we get to the airport, I feel like I'm going to throw up and my thighs hurt from squeezing them around the bike so hard. Beckett was actually driving surprisingly slow, but I didn't like the feeling of being so . . . exposed. Every time we would take a turn, all I could think about was my poor little bones bouncing all over the highway.

So I held on as hard as I could, figuring if I could at least stay upright, I might be okay even if we crashed. Of course, that also meant I was holding on to Beckett as hard
as I could, which was kind of awkward. The wind pushed my cheeks into the back of the T-shirt he was wearing. His laundry detergent smelled like spring, and his back was very, um, muscular.

When we finally get to the airport, Beckett drives right up to the drop-off lane. He cuts the engine, gets off the bike, and pulls off his helmet. He cocks one eyebrow at me, then holds his hand out to help me off the bike.

“Good ride,” I say nonchalantly. My knees are a little wobbly, and I take a stutter step backward, knocking against the motorcycle seat.

“Whoa, Pink,” Beckett says, sliding his arm around my waist. “I think you need to sit down.” He walks me over to one of the benches near the doors.

“I'm fine,” I say as I sit down. Pavement. Keeps. Spinning.

He shakes his head. “You should have told me you get motion sickness.”

“I don't get motion sickness.” Lie, lie, lie.

“Uh-huh.” He sits down next to me. “Lean your head down.”

“What?”

“Put your head between your legs. You'll feel better, trust me.”

I do what he says, mostly because I'm afraid that if I don't, I might end up puking all over him. Or the concrete. Neither of which would be a good idea.

He gathers my hair and holds it up off my neck. The cool morning breeze moves over my skin. “Take deep breaths,” he instructs.

I breathe in and out as slowly as I can. Almost instantly I start to feel better.

“Feel better?” Beckett breathes into my ear.

Goose bumps break out on my arms, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. My heart beats fast and my face flushes. “Yes,” I say honestly. “Thanks.”

He drops my hair, and instantly, I wish his hands were back on me. What is
wrong
with me? I must be really hormonal. Maybe I'm pent-up from not having sex for seventeen whole years. Hmm. Only one way to fix that.

“So,” Beckett says, standing up. “If that's it, I guess I'll be going.”

“You're definitely not coming on the trip?”

“Nah,” he says. “I never liked Florida. Too commercial.”

What's that supposed to mean? “Yeah,” I say. “Um. Well, thanks for the ride.”

“You're welcome.” He takes the helmet out of my hand and holds it by the chin strap. “Catch you later, Pink.”

Then he turns and heads back to his motorcycle, throws his leg over the side, and drives away. I take another deep breath and then head inside. It's only then that I realize I left my carry-on in the compartment of Beckett's bike.

“There you are!” Derrick says once he spots me wandering around the gate where our flight is supposed to take off from. The whole area is a mess of my classmates. There doesn't seem to be any order or anyone in charge, which is actually good for me. Easier to sneak on the flight.

Derrick comes rushing over, his face filled with concern. He's wearing a dark-green sweater and baggy jeans and his face looks freshly shaven, and now that I'm here with him I feel relieved, like everything's going to be okay.

“I was so worried.” He frowns and smooths my hair. “What's wrong, hon? You look pale.”

“Do I?” I don't feel pale. In fact, I feel kind of . . . hot. It's definitely not from being close to Beckett, though. It's probably because I left my bag on his bike. And so now all I have is my purse. Good news = I have my cash, my debit card, and my ID. Bad news = my carry-on had some of my clothes, some underwear, my makeup, and my inappropriate bathing suit.

“Yeah.” Derrick steps back and looks at me. “Your face is pale but your cheeks are red.” He's holding a paper container of soft pretzel bites. Humph. I guess he wasn't so worried about me that he couldn't think about food.

“Why didn't you text me?” I demand as he follows me over to the self check-in. I swipe my debit card and grab my boarding pass. Ha! Try to keep me off the flight now, chaperones!

“My phone died.” He holds up the blank screen. “I was
going to charge it when I got here, but then I realized I packed my charger in my suitcase.”

“Oh.” I take a deep breath and try to collect my thoughts. “Well, I missed the bus.”

“You know you're not supposed to be getting on the flight then, right?” Derrick asks. “It was in the informational packet.”

“Yeah, I know.” I shrug, like it's no big deal. I'm starting to feel a lot better now that I'm inside and my stomach has stopped churning. And Beckett's probably right. Are they really going to stop me from getting on the plane? I doubt it. I reach out and grab one of Derrick's pretzel bites and dip it in the little cup of melted cheese sitting next to them. Yum.

“Was your mom pissed?”

“Pissed?”

“Yeah, that she had to drive you to the airport?”

“Oh. Um, no.” I don't know why, but I don't want Derrick to know that Beckett drove me here. Not that Derrick would care. Derrick is not the type of guy who gets jealous. And he doesn't need to be. I love Derrick. I am going to marry Derrick. I am about to lose my virginity to Derrick. I should tell him. About Beckett. Now. He should know now. Tell him. Right now.

“I think we should have sex,” I blurt. The girls who are sitting in the airport chairs a few feet away—Renee Hayes and Suri Cusimano—turn to look.

“
What?
” Derrick asks. He swallows the last pretzel bite and then throws the empty container in the trash.

I lean in close to him. “I mean, aren't you . . . I mean, don't you want to have sex with me?” I don't know why, but it's never occurred to me that maybe Derrick doesn't want to have sex with me. I always thought he was just being nice, waiting for me to decide that
I
wanted to.

“Of course I want to have sex with you,” he says. “I just . . . I didn't think that was something you were, you know, interested in.”

“You didn't think I was interested in sex?” What's that supposed to mean? Does he think I'm some kind of prude? Or asexual? Why would he think that? I always try to be really into it when we're making out. I read an article somewhere that said guys love enthusiasm. They just want to know you're enjoying what's going on. You don't even have to be that good at what you're doing as long as you're enthusiastic.

Of course, I read that article in the eighth grade, before I'd even kissed a boy. Quinn, Aven, and I stole Quinn's mom's
Cosmo
and we were reading all the articles about sex, especially the ones where guys would list the top one hundred things they wanted women to do to them. (That was definitely a little scary to read when you're in eighth grade. You really do not want to think about some of the things that guys want you to do when you're that young. Actually, I
don't want to think about some of them now. La, la, la, not thinking about it.)

“I don't know.” Derrick seems all excited now. His eyes are sparkling, and he licks his lips. “You just never brought it up before.”

“Well,
you
never brought it up before.”

He leans in even closer to me. “So does this mean, you know, that you're ready?” He's practically salivating.

“I don't know,” I say, even though obviously I've already decided that I am. But I have to keep at least a little bit of the mystery alive, don't I? I don't know why, but something about Beckett driving me here has made me even more convinced that I'm ready to sleep with Derrick. It doesn't make any sense. Why would coming here with Beckett make me realize I want to have sex with Derrick? Also, I have to admit that I like the way Derrick's looking at me right now. Almost like he doesn't know me. Like he's shocked at what I'm capable of. I raise my eyebrow and bite my lip in what I hope is a sexy way.

“Okay, well, I know a way to—” Derrick starts.

“Lyla!” someone screams. It's a voice that's familiar but not at the same time, almost like hearing something in a dream. “Lyla! There you are!”

I look up to see Aven Shepard calling my name from the other side of the room. I frown. Why is she calling my name? Yes, we used to be best friends, but honestly, I can't
remember the last time I talked to Aven. Actually, that's not true. If I'm being completely honest, I do remember the last time I talked to Aven. We were coming down the stairs after eighth period last year, and she bumped into me, and then I said, “Excuse you!” and then she said, “Excuse me,” in this really small voice, and I remember I was so annoyed at her for not sounding annoyed, because Aven is always trying to be, like, the victim.

She's always acting like she never does anything wrong when, if you ask me, she does a lot of things wrong. She just doesn't want to admit it to herself. Anyway. That was back when our friendship was so fresh in my mind that any interaction I had with her automatically got logged in my brain, like I was just buying time until we were going to be friends again. But of course we never are.

“Oh,” I say. “Ummm . . . hi.”

“Listen,” she says. Her light-brown hair is pulled to one side in a fishtail braid, and she's wearing khaki shorts and a navy-blue T-shirt. Isn't she cold? I know we're going to Florida, but why is she wearing her Florida outfit now? “I need to talk to you.” She holds her phone up and bites her bottom lip. “Did you get your email?”

“Sorry,” Derrick says, looking at her. He shakes his head. “Aven, right? Sorry, Aven, but we're talking here. And it's kind of private.” Wow. He sounds very serious. I've never heard him sound so serious before. I flush with pleasure. He must really
want to have sex with me if he's sounding so serious.

Aven swallows. “Oh,” she says. “I'm sorry, I didn't . . . I mean, I didn't realize you were talking.” But she doesn't move. She just takes in another deep breath and stands there. “It's just . . . did you get your email?”

“My email?”

“Yeah, the ones we sent? Did you get it?” Her voice sounds frazzled, and she shifts her weight from foot to foot, like she's here asking about a secret government document and not just some dumb email we sent when we were fourteen. Her hair is a lot longer than it used to be, and it's darker on the top than the bottom. She must have gotten an ombre. It makes her look older. In a good way.

“What email?” Derrick asks.

Oh, god.

“Yes,” I say to Aven. “I got it.” I say it firmly, like the conversation is over and that's all I have to say on the matter. This isn't going to turn into one of those trips down memory lane, where we reminisce about how crazy everything was when we were fourteen, and oh my god can you believe we sent those things, and holy crap weren't we so young, and maybe we should just be friends again or at least if we're not friends, we should just forget about everything and no hard feelings when we go to college okay mm-hmm bye.